


The Rest is Silence

by whitchry9



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Canon Compliant, Friendship, Gen, Magical Realism, Present Tense, Supernatural - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-06
Updated: 2014-07-14
Packaged: 2018-02-03 14:42:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 3,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1748303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitchry9/pseuds/whitchry9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything whispers to John, and they tell him things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt located here: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/22393.html?thread=131293049#t131293049

Everything whispers to John.

He's not mad, he's realized that by now, because it's real, and he knows that mad people don't think they're mad, and think that the things they hear are real, but he's sure on this.

Everything whispers to John, and they tell him things.

 

Not everything likes talking to him as much, for some reason, things of pain and death seem to be more talkative. Knives, and thumb tacks, and the little mousetrap his mother sets in the kitchen all whisper to him, telling him stories, sometimes asking for help. Sometimes they're just lonely.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It's probably why he wants to be a doctor, why he goes to war.

He likes the things that the bullets and the bombs and the guns tell him. He likes his gun, and when he holds it in his hand, he feels calm, steady, deadly if he has to be. His gun is almost like a kindred spirit to him.

 

He doesn't hear the bullet coming until it lodges in his shoulder, and it cries out to him, or maybe that is just him, since he's probably crying out too, he can't quite tell. He thinks he might die there, with only the bullet and his gun for company, and neither of them are very good at conversation at the moment.

 

He doesn't die in the desert, and eventually he goes home to London, after listening to so many scalpels and IV poles and bandages and stethoscopes moan at him that it almost drives him mad.

And when he's back in England with a scar on his shoulder and a limp in his leg, he finds his gun utterly silent.

 

They give it back to him, even though they shouldn't, but they know, a little bit at least, how attached he is to it. And he's thankful for that, because he feels he already lost a part of himself in Afghanistan, something that seeped out along with the blood, and he can't get that back, so his gun will have to do.

 

But it won't speak to him.

 

He sits in his bedsit, alone in the dark, and holds it on his lap, urging it to speak to him, to say anything.

 

“So what's new?” he tries. “I know you were kept in storage for a while. Anything interesting happen?”

He chatters on for a while, trying to get anything out of it, but he feels... alone. Nothing else in the flat wants to speak to him, only occasionally muttering to themselves. He feels lonely.

He's angry.

 

“Fat lot of good you were,” he tells it. “When I was shot and everything.”

There's no response.

 

“Don't do that, give me the silent treatment. If anyone should be ignoring anyone it's me, not you.”

Still no response.

 

He tries again.

“I didn't mean that. Not really. It's not your fault.”

 

Still frustratingly silent.

 

“Fine,” he says. “You have your little tantrum. See if I care.”

 

He leaves it alone under the bed, in the box it was stored in.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've managed to actually finish the story now, so the rest of it should be up in a timely manner.

He goes to therapy, and Ella tells him that keeping a blog will help, and John doesn't tell her that he and electronics don't get along well. (Something to do with all the different parts, separate things, all pressed into one.) Instead he tells her that nothing happens to him.

 

That afternoon he runs into Mike, and from there he meets Sherlock Holmes. For a split second he wonders if Sherlock has it too, what he knows just from touching his phone, but his phone squeaks that it didn't say anything.

 

Sherlock flutters off, and John is left standing there awestruck and utterly baffled.

 

But then Sherlock explains how he did it, and John is simultaneously relieved and disappointed that he is once again alone with his... thing.

 

He does it again at a crime scene, and John can't tell him that he's right, but her rings confirm that they're rarely on her hands.

_We think she doesn't like us,_ the one says, and the other confirms.

But then Sherlock makes grand exclamations of colour, and races off. A black car pulls up for John, and nothing in there tells him anything. He can tell that they're used to holding secrets.

 

He meets a man whose umbrella rapidly develops a soft spot for John's cane, and it's hard to listen to the two conversations and respond only to the one, but he does it.

 

Sherlock texts him and summons him to the flat citing danger, and the man looks interested. John would very much like to tell him to piss off, but given that he has no clue where he is, and this man could kill him, he doesn't. He plays nice and the man sends him home in the same car, with the same woman, neither of them speaking to him.

 

So he stops by his bedsit before heading to Sherlock's ( _no,_ hecorrectshimself, _their)_ flat, and picks up the gun from his desk. 

He holds it in his hand, familiar and right, but it has nothing to say to him.

He misses it.

But he doesn't dwell on it, because the car is waiting outside, and he can't just stand here and whisper sweet nothings to his gun all night, because Sherlock needs him.

(And doesn't that say a lot, because he just met the man, and here he is, getting his gun and shoving it in his waistband before hobbling back down the stairs to the dark car that's waiting.)

 

He almost wishes it will say something, like it's done so many times before, complaining about the heat, or the tight fit, or the inability to see the sky.

John almost smiles at that, because no matter how much he pretended it annoyed him, he misses it.

(But not-Anthea is still sitting there, and she's not looking at him, but she could see, and he doesn't want to have to explain.)

 

Oh god, he's a mess.

 


	3. Chapter 3

The danger Sherlock refers to is sending a text, and John is exasperated in a fond sort of way. The pink case that Sherlock found is terrified, sitting on the chair, crying out to anyone who will listen that it's lost and alone. John finds it hard to hear anything Sherlock says while it's nattering on, so he's happy that they go out, even if it appears to sort of be a date to the rest of the world.

(The candle on the table is very happy for him.)

 

So they go for a run, and he forgets his cane (who hasn't said more than a dozen words since he'd had it), and it gets delivered to the door, and while John is smiling at it, it grumbles about being left behind, and how it was just going to be shoved in a closet now, and wasn't that just typical. And John would laugh, already had in fact, about the absurdity of the whole night, except there's an incident upstairs and Sherlock isn't smiling anymore.

 

There's a drug bust and Sherlock leaves, and John's heart sinks to somewhere near his kidneys when he realizes Sherlock's gone with the serial killer they've been tracking.

So he gets his own cab and picks a building, except it's the  _wrong_ building, and Sherlock is going to take the poison pill and  _die,_ but his gun is in his hand and it's whispering to him and he fires true and straight and Sherlock is  _fine._ And everything is right with the world, even if he's just killed a man.

( _He wasn't a very nice man,_ his gun tells him, and he echoes that to Sherlock, too in shock that it's speaking to him again to come up with anything else.)

 

Later that night, after Sherlock and John go out for dinner (he didn't predict the fortune cookies, of course, no one can), John sits on his bed in 221b, and holds his gun in his hands.

 

_I'm sorry,_ it says.

“I know,” John whispers. “I'm sorry about the things I said. I didn't really mean them. I just... missed you.”

It hums.

_I thought you blamed me for getting shot,_ it admits, and John aches inside.

“Of course not.”

_And I thought that it would hurt less if I ignored you, instead of the other way around._

John leans back on his bed, cradling it in his lap.

“Look how that turned out.”

It hums again.

_You like him, don't you. You're moving on._

John considers that. “I do like him. He's... interesting. And I think moving on would be good.”

He shifts his shoulder unconsciously, and his gun winces, as much as it can for being made of metal and plastic.

_I won't ignore you now,_ it supplies helpfully.  _I feel like you're going to need me._

John sighs. “I hope you're wrong, but... I don't think you are.”

He smiles, and caresses it a while longer. They both needed the contact after what had happened.

 


	4. Chapter 4

There's an incident with a chip and pin machine, or more accurately, a disagreement between him and one. To be fair, it is grumpy that day, and John has no patience for testy machines, and in the end, he goes home without groceries.

(He wishes Sherlock would do the shopping, but then he'd only be left in the flat with everything else that is lonely and complaining, and he honestly isn't sure what's worse.)

 

A couple weeks later he hears a muffled call for help from underneath Sherlock's chair, and pulls out a sword.

_Oh thank you,_ it sighs.  _I was so frightened. Oh, and I'm sorry... about the table._

John sighs. He knew the scratch was Sherlock. Still.

He takes the knife upstairs and keeps it with his gun. Hopefully Sherlock won't realize it's missing, given that it was hidden to begin with.

 

* * *

 

Sometimes the various chemistry equipment in the kitchen informs him that they're close to exploding, or otherwise producing messes, and John makes sure to ask Sherlock about them, even if it's just to remind him that yes, the world still exists outside of his mind.

 

Once he goes to pick up a mug to make tea, and it helpfully informs him that it should be double, maybe triple, washed before use, because Sherlock was growing bacteria. Again.

John smiles, and thanks it before dumping it in the sink with the others.

 

Sometimes when Sherlock's laptop is angry, it yells at John.

He attempts to ignore it, since he only has a passable relationship with his own at the best of times, but sometimes it's all he can do not to smash it to get it to shut up.

 

Sherlock's violin is much like that man himself, moody, arrogant, and brilliant.

 

John doesn't feel a kindred spirit in any of the items in the flat, except for his gun, now that they're back on speaking terms. It's a bit surprising, given how much of their life is danger and mystery all wrapped up in crimes, that nothing else is so associated with pain and death.

Or maybe it's just not talking. That wouldn't surprise John. After all, this was Sherlock's stuff.

 

(The skull is silent, even though he's tried and tried to speak with it.)

 


	5. Chapter 5

After Sherlock's death, everything in the flat just whispers  _sorry_ to him, over and over. 

 

He wakes up in the morning and his blankets whisper  _sorry._

He makes tea and his mug whispers _sorry._

He sits in his chair and the Union Jack pillow whispers _sorry._

The books on the shelves and the headphones on the wall and the mirror in the bathroom all whisper _sorry_ to him.

 

He doesn't respond to any of them. After all, what can he say?

 

He starts to think it will never stop, that the whispering will infiltrate his dream, his every waking thought, that eventually the white noise will blend in with the screaming of his mind, and that he won't even notice it anymore.

 

He moves out, because he doesn't think he'll survive that.

 

His gun wishes it could make things better, but they both know it can't.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He moves on and he meets Mary and she's lovely, just everything about her is.

 

Lestrade comes over one day with a box of Sherlock's things, and it hurts. John hasn't gone back to the flat, because he can't stand to hear the apologies.

_I'm sorry,_ the nicotine patches whisper, and so does the video before he plays it.

But Sherlock on the screen makes him smiles and it almost drowns out the unending apologies from his things.

 

On the day he plans to do it, to propose, John goes back to Baker Street.

He thought it would be easier, maybe, but it isn't. The moment he steps through the door he hears things, and he can't tell whether they're memories or the actual walls speaking to him.

 

Mrs Hudson takes him in for tea, and her chatter helps.

 

She comments on the moustache, and John wants to tell her that he knows, a bit anyway, but can't bring himself to shave it off, because somehow it became sentient, which is new. Hair has never been sentient before, but now his moustache has, and named itself Harold. Another first, an object with gender. He would shave it off, but Harold begs him not to. He's quiet otherwise, so John makes do.

(He wonders if it had to do with the circumstances he grew it under, sorrow and pain and anxiety about the future. Or maybe it was because he came with intent, because he thought it would please Mary.)

 

Instead he tells her that he's just trying it out.

 

The flat still speaks to John, the posters on the wall and the sheet music scattered on the desk. They have finally stopped whispering apologies to him though. Instead they ask him how he's been, and that's the end of the conversation.

The rest is silence.

He wonders if it would be better if they kept apologizing.

 

He tells Mrs Hudson that he has news, and after a number of misunderstandings, tells her that he plans to propose. The ring is in his pocket, and he feels for it so it can reassure him. It doesn't say much, but the way it spoke to John was just like Mary did, and he couldn't help but feel it would fit her perfectly.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

When it turns out Sherlock is not dead, and after hitting him repeatedly, John and Mary go home.

Harold announces that he's resigned himself to his death, and John is thankful.

 

He shaves him off and tells Mary that he's not going back to see Sherlock.

 

He nearly dies, because that seems to be a thing that happens a lot when Sherlock is around, but he doesn't die, because again, Sherlock.

 

He goes to the flat the next day to thank Sherlock, or maybe something else, he wasn't entirely sure.

The flat is much happier now that Sherlock is back, nothing apologizes or whispers, but instead murmurs sighs of contentment.

 

It's like Sherlock never faked his death and left John alone, because he drags him out on a case almost immediately, not telling him anything or explaining himself, which is how they end up in the subway about to be blown to bits.

He wonders why the bomb isn't screaming at him, because it's right there and it will kill him and Sherlock and so many others, and he doesn't figure it out until he hears Sherlock making choking noises, and it's not tears but laughter.

John really wants to hit him again, but doesn't because they're both still alive and the relief gives him a high that he rides for the rest of the day.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock helps plan the wedding, and he's good at it, almost too good, and the napkins that he folds while John is in the kitchen speaking to Mary greet him nervously.

Mary sends them off and they don't solve the case, but the boy doesn't die, and that's something. There's nothing for John to speak with, nothing for him to glean any amount of information from, and even Sherlock can't solve it.

 

So they move on and Sherlock plans a terrible stag night. John doesn't remember much of that evening except the piece of paper on his forehead refusing to reveal what it said, and the one on Sherlock's sighing repeatedly.

 

Then it's the big day and nothing at the wedding seems to want to talk to John, which he supposes is good, given that his strongest relationships seem to be with items of death and pain and suffering, all of which are not welcome at a wedding.

 

But Sherlock's speech takes a turn and he's right, of course he is, the bastard is always right, and Sholto's belt can be heard pleading through the door to not be removed.

 

Sherlock tracks down the killer, of course he does. Something in the man's camera bag is practically yelling, and John tries not to wince, and instead waits for Sherlock to explain it, which he does, of course.

 

And it all makes sense, because pain and death, and there it was, the dagger that stabbed Sholto, perhaps not so much pain, but it was well on its way to causing another death.

(But Sherlock worked miracles and John worked medicine, and in the end they were both magic.)

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

There's Magnussen, and nothing about him speaks to John, and it's the worst feeling everything, a void where there should be the occasional whisper, and he's afraid of what that means. Because if he's as bad as Sherlock says he is, and John has no reason to doubt him, then the man should practically be bursting with talkative objects.

The silence is unsettling, and the man's actions do nothing to negate it.

 

He doesn't take his gun when they go that evening to his office, and it whines at him that it wants to come. He tells it no, and puts it back in the closet before going to meet Sherlock.

 

Sherlock goes and proposes, to Janine of all people, and the ring won't say anything to John, even though he's sure it's full of secrets, or maybe truths.

But when they get up there, it's all a ruse and she's unconscious, and Sherlock races off and gets himself shot, and John isn't sure if he'll ever be able to breathe again if Sherlock dies for good.

 

He blocks out everything except for the ambulance siren off in the distance and the sound of Sherlock's raspy breaths. He doesn't want to hear what anything has to say.

 

Sherlock's still alive when they get to the hospital, and he's still alive when he goes to surgery, and he's still alive how many hours later when the surgery is over and he's _still alive._ It's more than John could wish for.

 

When he's waiting for Sherlock to wake up in the hospital, the equipment is whispering amongst themselves.

_I heard he coded,_ the IV stand says.

The heart monitor confirms.

The IV port in his neck speaks up.

_Yes, he did. It was close. They were about to give up. But then..._ it trailed off.

“What?” John asks faintly. “What do you mean they were about to give up?”

The IV port doesn't respond.

 

John sighs, and buries his head in his hands. Sometimes, he thought it would be better if he couldn't hear them.

Or maybe if they at least spoke back when he asked.

 

He wonders if the surgeons would let him see the bullet, because they likely pulled it out. There was no exit wound, so it had to be inside him, and unless it was lodged in his spine, they would have taken it out. Right?

(He'd ask the various items in the room what they thought, but it was clear they didn't want to speak to him.)

Because maybe if he saw the bullet, he could get something, anything from it. Where it came from, who shot the gun.

Who shot Sherlock.

 

But he's not sure he can do that right now, track down a gunman while Sherlock lays half dead, alone in a hospital bed.

And he's not sure if he can resist the temptation, if he does find out.

 

John doesn't know what to do, so he just takes Sherlock's hand in his own again, and double checks his phone to see if Mary called him back.

(She hasn't.)

 


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock escapes from the hospital and nothing can tell him anything useful. The heart monitor tells him he took the IV stand as a hostage, but John knows that isn't the truth. It had the morphine, and that's why he took it. The bed says he left less than an hour ago, but the flowers disagree, they say it was two.

 

He goes back to the flat and his chair is where it wasn't before, but it won't tell him why, and the perfume is sitting on the table next to him and it won't say anything, but he knows there's something there he's missing.

In the end he finds Sherlock because he calls him, and he ends up in a house that isn't a house, pretending to be someone he's not, listening to his wife tell all of those lies, or maybe they're the truth, because he can't tell anymore.

 

It's the worst cab ride of his life, and they end up back at the flat, and his chair still won't speak to him.

Mary sets a flash drive next to him, and it greets him, but won't say anything else.

Sherlock collapses, and he doesn't know how he could have missed that, he's a doctor for crying out loud, and back to the hospital he goes.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It's long months of Sherlock recovering and John ignoring the woman who calls herself his wife, and eventually they end up at the Holmes house for Christmas.

 

 

The flash drive won't say anything to John. It greets him, and then tells him it can't say anything.

 _I'm sorry,_ it says, and John almost believes that it is.

_I really would like to tell you, but I can't. If you want to know, you'll have to read what's on me._

John nods.

It's strange, because usually the items that are that kind and talkative with him are ones of pain and death.

It breaks him to think what that could mean about Mary. About AGRA.

 

In the end he doesn't read it, and he tosses it in the fire unopened.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Christmas goes downhill from there, with drugs and laptops and blackmailers who outsmart even Sherlock.

 

But John should have heard it, _should have heard it,_ his gun being taken away from him, held in Sherlock's hand as he yells to be heard over the helicopter, and declares he wasn't a hero.

His gun pleads for it to stop before it falls silent as the gunshot rings out.

 

Everything falls silent after the gunshot rings out.

 

He speaks to the gun that he somehow gets back, he speaks to his laptop, he speaks to Sherlock's violin, and nothing speaks back.

It's like they don't hear him.

 

Sherlock leaves on a plane, after cracking a joke, and John is left standing there with Mary.

 

_Nothing else speaks to him._

 

Sherlock leaves on a plane and John is left nearly alone in the silence.

Mary stands at his side, and John wonders if the rest is silence.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock comes back along with _someone else,_ and the world isn't as quiet anymore.


End file.
